


Powerful Desperation, Genius

by GordandV



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: All-Blades, Canon used as a sandbox, Gen, Gross Misuse of the All-Blades, Pactical uses for magical blades, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GordandV/pseuds/GordandV
Summary: “The All-Blades shouldn’t be used for something so pedestrian, this is a mockery of their power and respect, blah, blah, blah.  I’m only supposed to be able to draw them in the presence of pure evil and they’re not supposed to be able to harm anything else. I didn’t find that very useful so I’ve been… practicing.”
Comments: 18
Kudos: 258





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who hasn't read Red Hood and the Outlaws, once he's resurrected, Talia takes Jason to train with the All-Caste, a sort of secret society. He eventually gets to use the All-Blades, which are magical swords he can pull from midair to kill demons. It's super cool, and other stuff happens, but V binged RHATO in one sitting, and things got too weird even for V (Ra's al Ghul All-Caste what?). But this fic focuses mostly on whump with some added All-Blades for flavor, so you don't need to know much about RHATO to enjoy.
> 
> The All-Blades can only be drawn in the presence of pure evil and cannot harm anything else… but that’s not fun, so V’s writing a fanfiction.

“Hang in there, babybird,” Red Hood calls as he continues to wrestle with the metal cuffs around his wrists. “You hear me? Just hang in there.”

Red Robin’s spread on his back between metal shipping containers, belt and bo staff tossed carelessly to the side. He’s twitching and gurgling, just shy of actually having a seizure and actively foaming at the mouth. Red Hood know he’s dying; whatever the goons had shot Red Robin up with on deck, it’s far from medical grade. He thinks it might be a bad batch of Venom mixed with an overdose, but he can’t be sure.

“Just hang on,” Red Hood repeats. He’s cycling through the stages of grief and he’s back to bargaining. “I’ll fix you something until we can get you back to the Cave, but you have to hang in there. I know you carry a whole lab in your belt.” He smiles beneath his helmet. “Fine, I’ll say it: you’re a regular Honey Lemon. That’s right. I said it. Honey. Lemon.”

Someone had managed a lucky shot and bounced Red Hood’s helmeted head off a deck railing when they had been brawling. It had dazed the older vigilante enough to snap a pair of metal cuffs on him and drag him below deck. Red Hood’s grateful all the thugs have left the two of them alone in the cargo hold. It smells like stale salt air and dead fish and vomit; Red Robin had already emptied everything in his stomach when he had been brought down. The goons that had brought the pair down into the cargo hold hadn’t bothered chaining Red Robin. They had just taken his staff and belt away, spread his limp body belly-up on the wet floor, and left.

“Leave the little one,” someone had said. “He’s not going to make it.”

“Hey, stop! Stop that!” Hood tugs on his cuffs until can feel the skin beneath chaffing.

The muscles in Red Robin’s stomach start to jump beneath his uniform and Hood can hear his gurgles turn to retching; he can only hope Tim’s already vomited everything in his stomach including bile, otherwise he’s likely to choke. Water continues to slosh back and forth as the container ship moves. Red Hood’s pants are soaked through, and he gets to his knees in an attempt to change the angle of the chain.

“Fuck!”

Red Robin stops vomiting, but Red Hood can see flecks of foam around his mouth. He’s dying, actively dying, and Jason can’t do a damn thing. Blood runs down his wrists to his fingertips, and Red Hood clenches and unclenches his hands.

“Essence, where are you?”

Hood doubles his struggling and doesn’t stop when he feels more skin tear.

“What the fuck is the point of me being able to magically draw swords from thin air if I can’t use them unless something pure evil is around? What the point of the All-Blades if the only thing they can touch are demons?”

No one answers. No one appears.

“Ducra, you old hag, what the point of all that training for the All-Caste if it’s useless?” Hood yells. “It can’t even save one person unless they’re evil? That’s bullshit!”

Red Hood sits back down and watches Red Robin start to seize. It lasts maybe ten seconds and then Red Robin goes limp. And then he starts again. It’s not a full-blown seizure, but this one lasts a few seconds longer, and Hood guesses they’re only going to get worse.

Jason closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down. “I’m the one who controls the All-Blades. They’re mine. I’m in control.”

He starts to twist his wrists again until he’s got a nice puddle of blood on the floor. Then he opens both hands and waits for the familiar hilts of the All-Blades to appear.

“I only need one,” Jason whispers helplessly to the Universe. “Just one. I need to get out of these cuffs. I need to help Red Robin, and I can’t do that from all the way over here.”

Blood trails down the inside of his left hand. Red Hood clenches his hand into a first, focuses, and then opens it. He feels metal in his hand, and all it takes is one good swipe to slice the chains; they fall apart beneath the blade like butter. Red Hood get to his feet and looks at the All-Blade with a smirk: only appear and harm things that are pure evil his ass.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Red Hood says as he turns Red Robin onto his side and pats his back.

Tim’s gone whiter than a sheet and he’s sweating through his uniform. Hood risks taking off Red Robin’s domino to get a look at his eyes: both pupils are blown and he’s going blue in the lips. “What’d they give you, hm? What’d those bad men give you?”

Red Robin’s got a vial full of pale yellow liquid that’s a catchall for most overdoses; it won’t save anyone, but it’ll stave off most of the more dire consequences until proper help can be reached. Hood injects the antidote, grabs Red Robin’s belt and staff, and then pulls him into one arm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No whump this time, but there's still magical swords.

Red Hood replaces his gun into the holster on his thigh and is midway to the other way when he remembers that one is also out. He fingers his usual pouches and pockets for ammo and finds himself totally tapped out. The warehouse floor is littered with shell casings, and since Red Hood emptied his last gun, there hasn’t been any more gunfire. Huh. Everyone in the immediate vicinity must be out of ammo, but given the shouting and grunting beyond the wall of crates Hood had taken cover behind, the fight’s far from over.

He climbs the wooden boxes and takes stock of the situation; Robin’s got both of his swords out and is proving why he’s the only Robin who’s ever been allowed to open-carry live steel. Even Red Hood can easily admit that Robin is the best swordfighter of the family, but right now, Hood needs a sword for himself. He’s got a knife on his person, sure, but the traffickers have broken into their own shipment and have their own blades in hand; more than a few of them seem competent with the rapiers, and Red Hood’s hunting knife, even if it can cut the line of Batman, is not an advantage over three feet of Japanese steel.

“Can I have one of those?” Red Hood calls as he makes his way down the crates to the floor.

“No,” Robin snarls in reply.

“Please?” Hood asks. “Yours are so much nicer than the junk these goons have.”

And sure, Red Hood could probably disarm the first person to come after him and take their sword, but Robin’s blades are sharp and balanced and _nice_. Jason might be a gun type of guy, but he spent years with the League of Shadows and can appreciate a well-made and well-taken care of sword.

“No,” Robin repeats.

He’s got both swords spinning and slashing through the air. Red Hood whistles softly in appreciation; Damian makes sword work look like art: dangerous, deadly art, but art nonetheless. Kid’s got talent, and he’s going to be the best swordfighter in the world when he breaks being five feet tall.

“I’m telling Batman you wouldn’t share even though I asked nicely,” Red Hood says as he walks himself into Robin’s vicinity so that they can cover one another’s backs. He drags his hunting knife across the back of his hand (only morons and movies do the palm; palms get too much movement to heal quickly and neatly) and then tilts it so that the fresh blood can drain into his palm.

Jason trained with Batman, the League of Shadows, and every teacher they saw fit to send him to or fly in; he’s used to hard work and working hard. He’s been practicing on his All-Blades draw without pure evil around, and he’s been able to summon one blade reliably. Red Hood closes his hand around the familiar hilt and pulls the rest of the blade from thin air; he can hear Robin click his tongue, presumably in annoyance, from where he’s watching the older vigilante out of the corner of his eye.

“I know,” Red Hood says as he automatically pulls his free arm behind his back. “The All-Blades shouldn’t be used for something so pedestrian, this is a mockery of their power and respect, blah, blah, blah.”

Damian is Talia’s son and grandson to the Demon’s Head; Red Hood _knows_ he knows what the All-Blades are, presumably in detail.

“I was simply going to compliment your mastery over them,” Robin offers. “That’s quite an impressive feat. You have my admiration.”

Red Hood brains someone with the hilt of the All-Blade. “Huh. I was sort of expecting a lecture.”

The two plough through the rest of the thugs. Red Hood opens his hand and his sword disappears. Robin cleans both of his with his cape before replacing them on his back.


	3. Chapter 3

Fighting in close quarters with Nightwing is sort of like playing Russian roulette; Red Hood never knows when Nightwing is going to flip himself over Red Hood’s head or use him as a launch point. It’s sort of like playing with a really big, really excited puppy.

“Isn’t this fun?” Nightwing asks as he stops himself in a perfect one-handed handstand on Red Hood’s left shoulder.

“So fun,” Red Hood deadpans before Nightwing tips himself over so that he can land feet-first in a goon’s face.

Alright, so maybe Jason’s having a _little_ fun; this is a good old fashioned fistfight, no guns, no knives, just some brass knuckles and bare skin on skin. It’s sort of invigorating since none of the lackeys are actually that well-trained. Nightwing’s definitely showing off more than usual, and Red Hood’s secretly pleased; Dick usually flips himself around anyways, but he’s working _with_ Jason and giving him a grin that suggests that they’re working well together. It’s… nice.

Red Hood blinks behind his helmet when Nightwing abruptly slides up close enough to lick his faceplate. There’s a millimeter of space between them, carefully controlled and calculated, and Red Hood can feel the extra body heat invading his space despite his body armor. Nightwing’s just barely standing on his tiptoes.

“Give me a hand?” he asks.

They grab one another in an acro hold on one side, and Red Hood turns with a grunt. His free hand goes to brace the wrist he’s already using, Nightwing goes for one escrima stick, and they manage two full spins before Red Hood tilts himself forward. Nightwing gets both feet on the floor and he kicks off while Red Hood leans back and throws; most of the goons make the mistake of watching Nightwing in the air as he twists and flips. Red Hood uses his momentum to slam his elbow into the nearest body’s face.

“That was great!” Nightwing’s got his hands on his knees and is trying to catch his breath. He’s smiling and stands up straight, one hand on his hip.

Red Hood rubs his aching gloved knuckles with a nod. “Fun times.”

“We need to do this more oft-”

“No!”

Red Hood doesn’t think; he slams an All-Blade straight through Nightwing’s chest to get at the guy who’s suddenly right there and aiming to knife Nightwing in the back. The man drops the knife, slips off the blade with a groan from where he’s been impaled in the stomach, and hits the floor. Red Hood locks eyes with Nightwing who’s frozen in place. Red Hood raises one hand to remove his faceplate.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he soothes. “Just… don’t move.”

Nightwing raises both hands to the hilt of the sword Red Hood’s still holding. He’s shaking and gasping, wide-eyed behind his domino and already on the verge of hyperventilating. He looks like he’s just been betrayed, face a twist of confusion and hurt.

“It’s the All-Blades,” Red Hood explains in a rush as he looks for blood and finds none on Nightwing’s suit. “An All-Blade. I’m only supposed to be able to draw them in the presence of pure evil and they’re not supposed to be able to harm anything else.” He shrugs, careful not to move the blade. “I didn’t find that very useful so I’ve been… practicing.”

“I can’t… I don’t…” Nightwing’s slurring and Red Hood can see his eyes start to flutter; there’s no way having a magical blade shoved through your chest can be healthy, even if it hasn’t actually _done_ anything.

“Hey, you’re not bleeding,” Red Hood is quick to point out. “And I bet this doesn’t hurt. Just feels really, really weird.”

Nightwing nods and then starts to sway on his feet. The grip on Jason’s hand and hilt starts to falter.

“Help me pull it out,” Red Hood insists, suddenly fearful that he’s accidentally going to impale Nightwing, suddenly make the blade corporeal and stab the vigilante straight through. “Take a few deep breaths with me. In. And out.”

Jason’s careful to keep his breaths slow and measured until Nightwing complies. Then he starts to inch the sword out, millimeter by millimeter. Nightwing tries to help, but his grip is weak.

“Slow and steady,” Red Hood coaches.

The tip of the sword is still in Nightwing’s chest, and Red Hood suddenly feels the need to let go; Nightwing pulls the rest of the sword out, holds it in his hand for a few seconds, and then the entire thing disappears. Red Hood catches Nightwing when he tips forward, and he lowers them both to their knees. Nightwing continues to pant against Jason’s neck and shiver; he’s covered in a fine sheen on sweat and trembling from head to toe.

“You have any idea how long that trick took me?” Red Hood jokes. “But I guess you must have some type of focus since you could touch it by yourself. Bruce did train you.”

He thinks he feels Nightwing smile against his neck, but then Nightwing lunges to the side, plants his palms against the floor, and starts to heave again and again until he’s spitting up nothing but bile. Red Hood rubs his back and grabs Nightwing’s biceps when he starts to sway dangerously and his elbows buckle.

“Shit, what’s wrong?” Red Hood demands as he pulls Nightwing away to a clear patch of floor and carefully lowers him down.

There’s still no cuts in Nightwing’s suit, no blood, and no entry or exit wounds. Nightwing just motions vaguely to his chest, grits his teeth, and arches a bit.

“Feels like it’s in my spine.”

“It’s… it’s not,” Red Hood offers lamely. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do; nothing’s actually wrong with Nightwing. “Just breathe through it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, just a oneshot, but it's silly, and V thinks the world could use a bit of that right now.

Damian sits on the kitchen counter and locks eyes with Jason when Jason stands up from yet another drawer, emptyhanded.

“This is _your_ fault,” Jason accuses darkly. “There’s not a damn useable knife in this whole place because you keep stealing them.”

Damian just shrugs, a very human gesture that suggests Jason isn’t exactly wrong in claiming that Damian has a knife fixation, and Damian isn’t going to deny it; he does like his pointy things and Alfred claims the constant wear on the cutlery dulls the blades. What’s the point in returning them?

“I thought Alfred and Bruce forbid you from using the good silver,” Jason mutters as he heads for another drawer.

“They did.”

Jason throws his hands up in the air and returns to his cutting board which is surrounded by a number of packaged and imported cheeses. “Fuck it, if anyone gets food poisoning, I’m blaming you.”

Jason goes for a peeler, nicks the back of his hand, and then tosses it into the sink.

“That is a gross misuse of the All-Blades,” Damian notes as Jason adjusts his grip on the sword and then awkwardly begins slicing cheddar. “Grandfather and Mother would be disappointed.”

Jason offers his middle finger. “Grandfather and Mother shouldn’t have sent me away to get trained with magical swords. This is a practical use for a blade that doesn’t need to be sharpened.”

Damian clicks his tongue. “Did you even try to clean it?”

Jason shakes his head. “Any and all food poisoning is your fault since you can’t keep one good cutting knife in the kitchen.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter should be up in a few days/a week depending on V's mood and schedule.


End file.
